


For The Right Price

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [24]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Betrayal, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Boot Worship, Bruises, Cock Warming, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Electrocution, Explicit Sexual Content, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Forced Prostitution, Groping, Gun Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Improvised Sex Toys, Inappropriate Use of an Escrima, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Object Penetration, Objectification, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Spitroasting, Stripping, Teasing, Threats of Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Triple Penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28280169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Roman contracts Slade to bring in the elusive Nightwing. The mercenary is more than happy to take his share of the pie.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis, Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Gift Fics [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	For The Right Price

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



“More wine?” Roman entreats around a smile that could be a sneer or a grin. Hard to say, when the man has no lips. It’s definitely a leer though. 

Slade holds out his glass. 

“You’re welcome to stick around for the fun,” Roman continues in a raspy hum, his beady eyes bright in the voids of his skull. It’s strange, seeing him bare of his mask like this. Slade must have earnt special privileges to see the crimelord in his Sunday best. 

Roman withdraws the bottle, and Slade swills the glass, letting the burgundy liquid lick up its sides. His host corks the vintage and sets it aside with the clatter of glass on glass. 

Slade crosses his legs where he sits on the low lounge suite, leather creaking beneath his large build. 

Nearly everything in this apartment suite is glass or metal, the decor as harsh as its occupant, rebuffing and cold. It’s not to Slade’s taste - far too impractical and superficial to offer any real hospitality - but he can appreciate the style. 

The view’s made all the better by their thrashing guest. 

Slade’s not quite sure how he manages it, but his opinion that Dick Grayson could look beautiful doing near about anything is only reaffirmed by the sight of the man being dragged across the minimalist room. He’s cursing up a storm, the filthiest words falling from those pretty lips, and it makes the corner of Slade’s lips twitch to hear them. They’ve all been in the game long enough to know a lost cause when they see one; a Bat cursing a blue streak is as much a sign of surrender as everything else about the situation. 

His eye wanders over the Italian imported carpet and surveys the scene unfolding before him through the lens of his obnoxiously expensive vintage. He’s sure the picture he makes is arrogant, but Slade allows himself this small trespass. If only to appease his contractee. Thank him for his hospitality. 

It would be rude to turn down the invitation, and their centrepiece is making a gorgeous ruckus as he’s hauled across the lavish rooms of Roman Sionis’ personal suite. 

Slade turns his head to watch, sipping indolently as the team of men manhandle their victim up the short set of steps that make up the recessed sitting area, and towards the extravagant glass table that lines one windowed wall. The man in their midst spits a string of threats as he passes Slade, who merely lets his single eye follow the procession as he’s shoved forward and over one end of the dining table. 

The city’s painted in tones of purple and grey beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, overlooking the twinkling lights of Gotham. Behind the thin veneer of glass, the city almost looks peaceful, a delicate backdrop to the violence taking place high above her. 

The air wheezes out of the bird’s lungs in an audible rush when the mobsters shove him facedown, broad palms pinning his suited skin to the glass as he shifts and squirms. The hand on the back of his neck squeezes the breath from him, reigniting bruises Slade had left there earlier. 

How else was he supposed to get Grayson to behave? 

The man had put up a fight as soon as he’d clued into Slade’s intentions being less than honourable. By that point, however, Slade already had his arms locked in a tight bind, his own double-locking cuffs snug around his wrists. It had made the grab for his neck easier, Slade’s thumb and forefinger gripping tight to the pressure points at the base of his skull. 

Of course, the little bird hadn’t actually put up a fight until after the cuffs had gone on. It had helped that he’d caught Grayson in the midst of turning in for the night. Had been even more fortunate that he was feeling up to some of their usual games. Not that Slade couldn’t have gotten the cuffs on by force, but it certainly helped when the bird bent himself over the bed and pulled his wrists into the small of his back under his own free will. 

He never did understand how people could suspend all mistrust for the promise of a good fuck. It had been astonishing though, to see how placid Grayson was beneath his ministrations, and then to see how quickly they’d been dashed when Slade had pulled out his phone and snapped a photo for his contractee. 

Roman had seemed to appreciate the binds, even if Dick had bellowed incessantly for Slade to let him out of them. It had been a chore getting him out of the apartment, but Slade had been prepared for resistance and - unable to shirk the cuffs - the bird hadn’t been able to put up any sort of meaningful fight. 

He’d gotten about as far as he’s getting now, subdued by brute strength as eager hands paw down the lines of his suit, searching for a catch. Slade knows where it is, could offer them the information, but he’s enjoying watching Dick squirm furiously beneath their groping touches. 

“Try a knife,” Roman offers, hands slipping into his suit pockets as they watch the events unfold before them. Slade’s not certain, but he thinks the corner of the man’s maw twists up in a smirk at Dick’s desperate attempts to break free. 

Dick stills after a moment, single upturned eye trailing the goon that steps down to collect the offered knife. Far be it for Roman to serve on someone else. 

There’s a strand of misplaced hair hanging across his temple when that gaze flicks to Slade, the air easing from his lungs in a rough pants before he licks his lips and entreats, “Slade.” 

Ah, there it is. The bargaining. Apparently they’ve moved past the first few stages. Unfortunately for his little bird, Slade’s perspective on the whole deal hasn’t changed an awful lot. His bank balance has, however, and that’s currently more tangible than him lending the bird a hand. 

That brow pinches, those gorgeous blue eyes imploring as the goon steps around his colleagues and lays the sharp of the knife to the seam of Dick’s suit. Slade watches his throat bob against that high, tight collar, and takes another considering sip. 

“Slade, please,” Dick whispers, all pliancy and beseeching. He must be truly desperate if he’s asking the man who betrayed him to Sionis for a pretty penny for help. 

Maybe he thinks all their little trysts meant something more. They’d been fun, at the time; even Slade can admit they had chemistry. And it had been clean, honest enjoyment to begin with, when the bird had first started crawling through his safehouse windows with soft lips and a heated flush. 

He never technically said they’d be exclusive. The kid should have known him better than that; the job always comes first. 

“Nothing personal,” Slade murmurs, and anguished hatred twists those pretty features into a grimace as Dick’s thrashing renews. 

The knife slips only once, though the goon holding it is lucky enough not to damage the man’s flesh with it. The suit comes apart in two pieces, peeled down Dick’s spine as he’s held prone. It reminds Slade of all the times he’s had the vigilante laid out on his bed, kissing down the length of his back as he’d sighed into Slade’s sheets and arched into his touch. 

The gauntlets and sleeves take a bit less graceful hacking to get off around the cuffs, but it’s only a few mumbled curses from the goons before they’re lifting those lithe legs out of the butchered material and throwing it aside. 

Slade sprawls back on the couch, hitching his legs open and throwing his arms over the back cushions. It gives him an uninterrupted view of the proceedings, and particularly the furious flush that’s beginning to spread up his mark’s neck. The goons spook a little at the motion, gazes snapping to him, assessing. As if questioning his permission. 

He reaches aside to snag the offered glass of wine, raising it to his lips and lifting a brow. “Don’t hesitate on my account.” 

The bird almost does get the upperhand then, the smooth expanse of his skin proving difficult for the goons to get purchase. Then one gets a firm fist in his long hair, and yanks him into a sharp arch, baring him to Roman’s purview. 

The crimelord’s gaze is a palpable force, even from all the way back here. Slade can watch its progress in the shivers that trail down Dick’s body, the twitch of his muscles, the way it disrupts his heavy breathing. He can practically see the way the vigilante’s stomach plummets when Roman instructs, “Get him hard.” Dismissive, like he’s commenting on the weather. 

Dick still doesn’t react past numb horror until one of the False Facers slides down to his knees and grips the root of his bare cock. Slade nearly snorts when Dick tries to slam a knee into his temple. Another bends to secure his ankles, and the first musn’t be concussed yet, because he gives the bird’s limp cock a rough tug in reprimand before taking him into his mouth. 

It’s quiet for a few moments, the lull broken only by the soft gargle of wine hitting the back of Roman’s throat and the moans bitten down in Dick’s. Slade basks in the sounds, watches inattentively as the man begins to rouse, cock stiffening gradually with the goon’s determined effort. It all seems inefficient, to Slade. 

“Would’ve thought you’d just want to drug him,” Slade murmurs into his glass, pitching his words towards the crimelord watching on with smug rapture. 

“You lot always like it easy,” Roman sneers back. “Efficiency and all that. You’ve gotta take the time to enjoy the fight, Wilson.” 

Slade thinks, of the two of them, he’s perfectly well-versed in enjoying the fight. This sort of wrestle of wills just isn’t his personal flavour, not when there’s such a clear disadvantage at play. He likes his conquests still kicking, likes to watch the fight bleed out of them beneath his hands. From the swell in the front of Sionis’ slacks however, Slade thinks he can guess where Roman’s own preferences lie. 

It’s the sound of one of the others spitting into his palm that draws Slade’s sharp gaze back, makes Dick’s shoulders jolt with tension at the abrupt noise. Then the goon’s dry hand slides down to palm his backside, pulling one rounded cheek aside to slip a spit-slicked finger into his ass as Dick chokes on his shock and tries to wrench himself free. The grip in his hair keeps him in that gorgeous arch, showing off the acrobat’s flexibility, so both Roman and Slade get a front row seat to the spill of emotions over the bird’s face. 

Horror, and fear. And, despite his best efforts to mask it, bubbling arousal. 

His little bird always did like to play rough. 

Slade slips a palm into his thigh holster, popping open the strap with a snap that draws the attention of several of the buzzed thugs. With all the ease of a hedonistic king, he offers the gun, handle first, towards the impassive leer of the crimelord. 

“Thought we could make it a bit more interesting,” he offers with a shrug, and can practically hear Roman’s veins thrumming with the idea. “Let him show you what he can do with that pretty mouth of his.” 

Dick, expectedly, is much less thrilled with the prospect. He gets as far as bleating, “ _Slade-_ ” before one of Roman’s goons drives a fist so hard into his stomach that the acrobat doubles over with a wheeze. 

He folds to his knees with a muted groan when a goon steps down to take Slade’s gun, palming its weight. The goon considers it for a moment, admiring the glint of light across the unyielding steel, before he brings it down across Dick’s cheekbone. 

The naked vigilante shouts, a few drops of blood flying. His wrists catch in their cuffs when he tries to lift them to his own aid. 

Roman looks nearly bored with the development, more than halfway through his glass. “Fuck his mouth with it,” he orders, and a hand winds down to clamp around Dick’s jaw, tilt it up and open as the goon angles the gun between his parting lips. Those blue eyes flash with burning hatred. “Get the slut properly hard.” 

The steel knocks on his teeth when it enters, drawing a grunt and a curbed toss of the vigilante’s head before he concedes, if only to avoid the dental work. Slade gets the impression that Roman would knock teeth out to make way for his own cock if he needed to. 

Dick chokes a little when it nudges the back of his throat, barely enough room in his mouth to accept the whole barrel. But if anyone was going to impress, it would be Slade’s little bird. 

Dick’s eyes slip shut when the goon starts thrusting the gun between his lips, catching his lower lip on the trigger guard with each glide, and Dick takes it with pragmatic deference. He makes a pretty sight, naked and on his knees, letting a loaded pistol grind against his tongue for the viewing pleasure of a roomful of men. It makes Slade’s length stir with interest, pressing against the tight seam of his pants. 

The bird’s own cock, much more obvious where it lies against his crooked thigh, seems to have the same sort of ideas. Slade smirks at the confirmation that for all his protests, Grayson does seem to share that particular kink. 

After a few minutes of the goon seeing just how far into Dick’s throat he can leverage the gun, Roman grows bored with the charade. He sweeps a broad arm across the room, announcing, “Our guest has been so generous this evening. Time to show him your gratitude, Nightwing.” 

The goons pause, the dripping gun slackening in that grip when it withdraws. Then their boss’ words seem to filter down through the haze of arousal they’re all caught in. 

The hand in his hair tugs, drawing a grunt from Dick’s throat as he struggles to pull his trembling legs under himself. He stumbles down the short flight of steps in the goons’ grips, past the leering crimelord and runs right up into Slade’s lap. 

There he stills, head bowed over Slade’s shoulder and thighs crooked on either side of the mercenary’s own. Shoulders rising and falling slowly for a few minutes as he tries to string together even a modicum of composure. Then Dick lifts his head slowly to meet Slade’s gaze. 

He’d wondered when this all began if the man would cry, but seeing the harsh fury on Dick’s features is far too familiar. Slade feels a bubble of mirth at the sight of the vigilante’s trademark temper. 

Dick growls something that sounds suspiciously like an emphatic, “Fuck you.” 

Slade chuckles, and slips his hand down the line of his spine to palm that ample ass. Dick twitches and shifts above him as Slade leans back to watch his expression. 

“I seem to recall you mentioning you wanted to try out some _curiosities_ with guns,” Slade points out, low enough that it only passes between them. 

Dick looks incensed, gaze flat black fury. His hips still stutter when Slade presses a finger between his cheeks, stroking that fluttering hole. “Not with an audience,” Dick grinds out, teeth flashing. “Not in _Roman Sionis’_ penthouse. Not as Roman’s _pet-_ ” 

Slade’s hand tightens on the back of his thigh. “Not his, little bird. Just mine.” 

Then he presses that finger in, aided barely by the drying spit between the man’s cheeks as Dick shudders and curses above him. The friction must be uncomfortable, but Slade’s unsurprised when his uptight little bird withholds even that reaction from him. 

“If you ask nicely,” Slade murmurs against his throat, kissing the warm pulse there. It’s an insult to the intimacy they shared before, and he feels Dick coil in disgust, “I’ll let you spit on my fingers before I fuck you open on them. For old times’ sake.” 

The man’s response is bitten through gritted teeth when he quips, “I’ll spit on something.” 

Slade laughs, aware of Roman circling closer now that the progress seems to have halted. “Try it, boy.” 

“Turn him over,” Roman interrupts with a jerk of his chin towards the carpeted floor. The mouthful of wine in his glass licks the rim when Slade’s gaze lifts to hold his, assessing the crimelord’s intentions. 

It’s clear the man enjoys a certain level of degradation with his conquests. Seems to have built his empire on humiliating competitors in his quest to seize control of Gotham. Nightwing is just another crown jewel in his crusade against the Bat, nothing more than a pawn. 

Slade’s sure Dick would have something to say about that. Something about underestimating his enemies, a tongue-in-cheek comment about to value of humility. He nearly ignores the crimelord, if only to see what his little bird comes up with. Watching him run his pretty mouth is almost as fun as seeing someone smack him around for it. 

But still, he’s never been one to compromise a contract; it’s bad for reputation and business both. Slade plants both hands on Dick’s hips and manhandles him onto his front. 

A sharp little breathless scream parts from the little bird’s lips when Slade pitches him forward, shoulders yanking harshly at their sockets when he tries to pull his bound wrists under him. Classic Bat instincts kicking into overdrive as he dives for the carpet. 

The way Grayson tucks his chin and curls his shoulders into a forward-facing rolls speaks more to his acrobatic prowess, though. Slade only catches it because he's been waiting for the man to play his card, try to claim the upper hand somehow. It's desperate, and damaging if executed poorly; he taught his bird better. He's a little disappointed that this was all it amounted to. 

Layering a forearm around his waist curbs his descent - and the premature escape attempt - until Dick is panting harshly a half-foot off the carpet, hair hanging into his eyes. 

It gives Slade an uninterrupted view of that ass to grind his clothed groin against, just to hear the little bird gasp some more. He lowers a broad palm to Dick’s cheeks, the heat familiar as he kneads the flesh. Considers the merits of spanking him raw, just to see how many strikes it will take for him to break. 

Dick must have arrived at the same conclusion, because he sucks in a sharp breath, the muscles down his back pulling tight. Slade just exhales, aware of Roman’s gaze on them, and holds one globe aside to spit against the man’s bared hole. 

Dick jerks and hisses at the sound, stiffening indignantly until Slade slides his finger back in to massage deep. It doesn’t take more than a few pumps before he’s sliding in a second, smirking at the ease that greets him. The little bird might not appreciate his circumstances, but his body certainly is grateful for the familiarity. 

“What a needy little slut,” Roman mutters into his glass, and then, gaze flicking down at Dick’s soft little groan of dismay, seems to change his mind. That arm outstretches, glass held aloft as he tilts it - unseen by the bird panting gently in Slade’s lap - to drizzle what’s left of his wine over the man’s ass. 

Dick ricochets aimlessly at the treatment, a bleat of protest lodging in his throat when the first of the liquid hits. It drains into the divot of his spine, streaking down into his dark hair as Dick breathes roughly and weathers it, head bowed. Whining softly when Slade fucks a few of the drops loudly into his greedy hole. 

The clench of the little bird around the digits has Slade withdrawing to flip open the catches of his suit, to palm his filling cock. His knuckles brush Dick’s own member when he does, drawing a soft little sigh from the man as he pulls the length out. 

The goons stir with interest then, hoping to get a piece of the action, maybe. Or score a consolatory front row seat. 

Slade doesn’t intend to give them either, lining up and thrusting deep in one smooth motion that stretches his little bird to his limits. 

Dick arches and shouts at the burn, head lifting off the carpet as his back bows, all of him clenching tight around Slade’s cock. It shoves a grunt from between Slade’s teeth, and then a growled, “Fuck.” 

Roman, as expected, takes the opportunity to beckon the spotlight back to himself. 

“I've never heard you talk so much, Wilson,” Roman jeers. “The little slut must really get you going.” 

Dick slumps back over his lap, beads of sweat gathering alongside the stain of wine down his spine as he pants. He’s trembling, little minute shudders that tell Slade he’s nearly at his wits end. Being fucked in front of a Gotham crimelord and his goons will do that to a man, Slade supposes. 

He pulls out, sliding the bird down his thighs an few inches until only the tip of his cock is still inside that sweet hole. Rim fluttering around the strain as Dick hangs and waits. 

“What are you planning on using him for?” Slade asks, and marries the motion by fucking halfway into the man's hole in one unbroken thrust. Dick shouts again, but it’s quieter this time, swallowed up behind clenched teeth. 

“Maybe I’ll keep the slut around as a footstool,” Roman muses aloud, mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. Slade gets the impression he hasn’t put an awful amount of thought into what he’s going to do with his prize now that the contract on him has been filled. He doubts Roman’s conniving mind can’t come up with some solution, though. “I’m sure that ass will make a great place to rest my aching feet after a hard day’s work. I’ll bet it bruises up nice and pretty, too.” 

“He’s talented,” Slade agrees, grinding against Dick’s prostate just to watch the man squirm uselessly at the treatment. His breaths have started hitching, a precursor to what Slade is sure are tears. “I’m sure he can sell you on whatever role you choose.” 

“Maybe I’ll keep him around to entertain business partners with. Pass him around a board room. I’m sure the little slut is quite the showman.” 

Slade barks a harsh laugh. The crimelord doesn’t know just how close he is to the money. 

In his lap, Dick whines and twists. Slade reaches back to crack a gloved palm over his upturned ass, grinning at the yelp it earns him. The flesh blooms bright red in his wake. 

“Behave,” he warns. “Don’t make me look bad on the job.” 

Roman steps closer, eyes alight with brazen heat. Doesn’t show the barest amount of shame when he reaches down to palm his own cock, enjoying the sight of Slade fucking into the vigilante. 

“He looks like he could use some training,” Roman says, just the barest bit laboured. Those beady eyes flick up to Slade, a smirk twisting his lipless mouth into a leer. “Maybe I should hold your contract open a bit longer, Wilson. Give you a chance to train all the slut’s holes for me.” 

Slade barks another laugh, gripping hard above the arches of Dick’s hips to bounce him back on his cock a few times. 

“Slade,” Dick whimpers, and he promptly ignores him. “Please. You don’t have to do this.” 

The mercenary hushes him, twisting a hand between the bird’s bound wrists to give himself better leverage. It rocks Dick back onto his cock, and Slade hums at the shiver that ripples up the vigilante’s spine. 

He wraps a gloved palm up around the man’s throat, cutting whatever protests Dick might have off with a warning choke as he draws that flexible spine into a sharp arch. Leans forward enough to purr in the vigilante’s ear, “You don’t have anything to barter with, little bird.” 

Roman scoffs beside him, reaching down to trail curious fingers over Dick’s pretty cheekbones. Slade holds him still to bare the touch, ignoring the panicked flutter of those long lashes and the coil of muscle beneath his grip. 

He doesn’t like to share; but for the right price, Slade will sell exclusive rights to his little bird. Lord knows he’s racked up enough enemies to make the bid worth the mercenary’s while. Honestly, Slade’s surprised no one asked him to capture the elusive Nightwing sooner. He certainly hasn’t been quiet about their history. Roman just happened to be the only person bold enough to float a contract. 

So Slade will weather whatever depravities the man is intent on indulging, for the chance to enjoy Nightwing for himself one last time. In all the ways Dick never let him before, brushed off over bright laughs and trusting smiles. 

Dick’s eyes are closed by the time Slade’s palm skims over the rise of his ass, pulling one globe aside to dip a finger between the cheeks. Stroke over the man’s rim where it meets Slade’s cock, just to enjoy the way his bird flinches at the contact. 

“I think we can fit something else in here,” Slade murmurs, and Dick stiffens above him. 

“ _No,_ ” Dick bleats, with such visceral denial. 

Then he’s struggling, bare toes digging into the leather upholstery as he tries to squirm free. Slade just yanks him back with the grip he has on the bird’s cuffs, pinning him before the man can gain any leverage. 

Slade releases his throat to wrap a palm around one thrashing ankle, curbing the man’s struggles. “ _Still,_ little bird.” 

Dick sobs, loud and desperate, but goes blessedly limp. Slade releases the limb to rub a hand down his bared side, soothing the dejected vigilante. The cuffs on his wrists glint in the lowlight, so Slade reaches for them instead, thumbing open the lock. 

“Here, little bird,” he murmurs, ratcheting open the metal on one wrist. Dick immediately twists to plant his freed palm on the floor, seeking stability as Slade holds tight to the other. “Show us how well you can behave and I’ll consider letting you out to play.” 

Then he bends the man’s leg back until he can close the cuff around that ankle. Dick bleats a protest as the metal clicks, jerking harshly in a feeble attempt to shirk Slade’s grip. He shifts his palms to drag a thumb down the arch of that spine, admiring the bird’s flexibility in the half-hogtie. 

It forces the man to fall back on his thighs for stability, gripping hard as he wavers in Slade’s lap, clenching tight and sweet around his cock. Slade extends an open palm to the row of goons. “Give me his escrima.” 

“ _Slade,_ ” Dick pleads, but makes no move to fight other than to wrap his free hand around the mercenary’s ankle with a bruising grip. 

Slade just digs a harsh thumb into the dimples in the man’s back in return until he slumps. The goon returns after a few moments broken only by Dick’s ragged breathing, approaching with intrigued caution under his and Roman’s dual gazes. 

The escrima feels good in Slade’s palm, the weight comforting as he grips tight. 

“How many business partners did you say you had?” he asks the hovering crimelord, tapping the live end against the bird’s hip. Dick jerks and chokes. 

“Plenty, I’m sure,” Roman answers, voice low and rough. Those piercing eyes burn where they drag over Slade’s bird’s skin, and he offsets the feeling by stroking up the man’s flank. Massages the bones of his hips. Just to remind the men who’s in control here. 

“Best to train him to take them now then.” 

The bird keens when Slade angles the blunt end of the escrima against his rim. It’s a tight fit, the rod an unrelenting, nearly uncomfortable pressure against his cock as he presses forward. Slade grunts and rocks in alongside the hard length, exhaling when it slips past that first ring of resistance. 

Dick is breathing raggedly, great heaving breaths between Slade’s knees. The fingers wrapped around his ankle tremble, and the toes of his upturned foot curl the further in Slade presses. 

“Deep breath, little bird,” Slade mutters, and waits for the broken inhalation to shove deep. Dick screams at the friction, at the stretch, arching high as Slade grunts and adjusts to the clutch of his overstuffed passage. 

Then, satisfied that the escrima isn’t going anywhere soon, pets over those handsome thighs, kneading the flesh of his ass. Strokes a thumb over that trembling, filled hole as Dick whimpers and shifts in his lap, finally succumbing to those gorgeous tears. Slade taps once against the blunt end of the escrima, groaning at the low sizzle of electricity that sparks against his cock. Grins when Dick curls and jolts at the sensation. 

“Jesus Christ,” Roman murmurs, impressed. The words are a heated and hungry curse, and Slade is hardly surprised when he circles around to Dick’s front with predatory intent. 

One hand drops to yank his zipper down with unbridled ferocity, the other slipping into the hair on Dick’s crown. The vigilante jerks at the touch, whining when he’s held tight, throat leveraged open, beneath the crimelord’s cruel stare. Those tremulous blues lift to hold Roman’s gaze, begging with words that won’t rise on his bitten lips. 

Slade reaches down to flick open the clasp on his other thigh holster, letting the cold steel scrape up the vigilante’s skin when he slides it free. Just to reinforce the next threat that falls from Black Mask’s lips. 

“You bite me, whore,” Roman warns, and Slade taps the barrel leisurely against Dick’s bare hipbone, “and I’ll have him shoot one of your kneecaps out.” 

He feels Dick’s entire body reject that idea, feels the way he clenches down on Slade’s cock like he can shrink away from Roman’s poisonous touch. The mercenary hums and strokes a bare palm over that tanned skin, nails hitching on an old scar. Imagines Grayson must be picturing all the potential years trapped on the ground, and is surprised to find the idea of his little bird with clipped wings irks him. 

“Not sure I’m on board with that,” Slade admits, and drags the muzzle boredly down the valley of Dick’s spine. The bird shudders beneath the scrape of cold metal, a small whine pressing out past Roman’s thumb where it’s jammed in the corner of his jaw. “I sort of like him in-tact.” 

Roman snorts. “Will a couple hundred grand change your mind?” 

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Slade admits, regardless of if it’s true, and hears Dick’s plea when Roman crams it back down his throat with the head of his cock. The bird’s chest convulses, hand leaping up to brace on the crimelord’s thigh as Roman withdraws his thumb to ease the slide in. 

Dick adjusts to the rhythm quickly, though there’s little more asked of him than to slacken his jaw and let Roman roughly fuck his mouth. The grip in his hair keeps him upright, keeps those watery baby blues from closing for too long. 

Even without the gorgeous view from above, Slade enjoys seeing the twitch of Grayson’s skin beneath his weapon, his awareness focused solely on the mercenary’s movements, even as he chokes on Roman’s cock. They both know who the more dangerous suitor here is, and Slade feels his veins heat with satisfaction. 

With every trained instinct attuned to the drag of metal, Slade makes sure to transverse the little bird’s entire body, tracking over each of his ribs and up under his chest to draw circles around his sensitive nipples. Chuckles at the arch of Dick’s spine beneath the treatment, at the ripple that crests over his shoulders with the sensations. 

When he descends to tap the barrel against the trapped man’s cock, Dick jolts and moans needily. Slade chuckles, pressing a warm kiss between his shoulder blades. “You like that, don’t you, little bird?” 

That earns him another shudder, the man’s thighs parting around Slade’s as he sits deeper on the mercenary’s cock. 

“Always were a cockslut,” he muses aloud, and doesn’t miss Roman’s mouth twisting into a sneer at the words, the way his beady little eyes sparkle with amusement. “Both holes filled and still begging for more.” 

Dick keens, high and tremulous, throat arching when Roman yanks his head back by the hair to fuck into him at a better angle. Slade can almost see the press of the crimelord’s cock through the skin. 

“You were made for fucking, little bird. Every part of you. And you were made for sharing even more.” 

Roman’s pace is sloppy, driving hard and fast into Dick’s throat as those white knuckles grip at his slacks. It's almost enough force to shove him back on Slade’s cock, and the mercenary laughs, deep in his chest, when the force jabs the escrima back into his abdomen, setting off the mild taser at its tip. 

The tears start streaming in earnest then, lungs fluttering around the choked noises that make it past his throat. Roman groans into the sensation, grinding down hard enough on Dick’s tongue that Slade can feel his whole body clench around the urge to gag. 

He scoots to the edge of the cushion, ignoring Dick’s panicked whine when he thrusts into the man. His free leg hooks around Slade’s hips, seeking purchase as he holsters the gun and takes a hold on both sides of that narrow waist. Pulls the man back onto his cock with a groan, grinding deep. 

It shifts the escrima inside him, scrapes a keen from Dick’s throat as Slade starts up a brutal pace. He’s writhing, the motions stunted by his bound limbs and the unrelenting grip Slade has on his middle, manoeuvring him as he sees fits. 

When Roman reaches down to slap the slut’s face, Slade grunts at the reflexive tension. Dick gargles uselessly, eyes clenching shut when Roman regards that with another ruthless hit. That flush is darkening to something more noticeable, the red handprint spreading across the vigilante's hollowed cheeks as he chokes down Roman’s length. 

Slade snakes a hand beneath them to grasp Dick’s cock, reward him for his efforts. The bird squirms at the touch, a dissenting plea cresting over his lips that's muffled by the cock still buried in his throat. 

It draws Roman over the edge, fist ripping at the man’s hair as he buries his cock in that warm mouth, coming hard down Dick’s throat as he chokes and cries. 

The mercenary leans forward to bite into that rippling, tanned flesh. Taste the sweat and desperation on the little bird as he winds him ever tighter. 

That free hand shakes on Roman’s thigh, snapping down to wind around Slade’s wrist. It’s futile; the vigilante isn't strong enough to stop him, and seconds later he's arching, moaning as he comes to Slade's relentless pace. 

Slade growls, teeth sinking deep as he shoves as far into Dick as he can, emptying into that greedy hole. His hand doesn't stop, Dick's fingers turning bruising as he squirms and begs wordlessly from the overstimulation. Throat filled with another man's cock, and Slade's mark on his skin. 

When he’s finally spent, satisfied that the bird hasn’t missed a single drop of Slade’s release, he releases the bloodied flesh between his teeth. Dick moans with the return of circulation, wincing when Roman rocks his softening cock over that sweet tongue one more time before pulling out and tucking himself away. 

Slade reaches up to release the cuffs, smiling at the grateful, relieved groan the bird gives him as he slumps over his lap. Fingers curl on the tile, those smooth shoulders caving around the sob in the bird’s chest. 

The mercenary pulls free, laughing at the trail of cum that drips down the vigilante’s perineum with his exit. He takes a hold of the buried escrima, fucking it into the loosened hole to curb any further loss. Ensures he leaves Dick with a gift to remember him by. 

“Satisfied?” Slade asks, and Roman bares teeth in a grin. 

“With your contracts? Always.” 

Then he takes a step back, gaze falling from the exhausted man between them to his own designer loafers. 

“You came on my shoes, whore,” Roman growls, waving the desecrated articles beneath Dick’s nose as he shudders and shakes. His gaze flicks up tiredly to note the splash of white cum painting them, his hot breath fogging the black Italian leather. 

Slade tugs his rim open with a single thumb, nudging the escrima deeper into the puffy, swollen hole. Dick sobs, elbows shaking where they bear his weight. Roman taps the toe of his shoe against the little bird’s chin, smearing some of the mess there. 

Reluctantly, he leans forward to lick a stripe up the leather, wincing at the taste. 

“I think being a footstool would suit you,” Roman comments airily. “You can lick my shoes clean at the end of the day and keep my feet from touching that filthy floor.” 

Dick doesn’t comment, and Slade nearly laughs at the man’s uncharacteristic silence. He rewards the bird’s sloppy but attentive efforts by angling the rod against that sweet spot inside him, teasing his sensitive prostate until Dick is whining brokenly. 

When he’s done, Roman steps back to admire his work under the bright lights. The leather glints with saliva as Dick pants against the carpet, spent. 

“It could use some work,” Roman admits. “But luckily we have all the time in the world to practice.” 

It's a call to the end of their meeting, if Slade ever heard one. Who knew Roman understood the concept of subtlety. 

It's a mark of his own mercy that he unlatches the cuffs on Dick's wrist and ankle before delivering him at Roman's feet. For old times' sake, Slade tells himself. The vigilante doesn't bother to take advantage of his newfound freedom, exhaustion evident in every tendon and muscle. 

He shoves the bird from his lap, ignoring the pained yelp when Dick collapses to knees and elbows on the carpet between the mercenary’s shoes. 

Slade pushes to his feet, nudging the man aside as he rearranges himself and relatches his suit. Pauses to tap the toe of his boot against the protruding end of that escrima, and is amused when Dick manages to resist the urge to do more than twitch at the spark. 

“Call me if he needs any more training. I’ll be open to a contract if he needs the reminder.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
